


Hysteria

by tori_trevor



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:43:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tori_trevor/pseuds/tori_trevor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2060.</p>
<p>Joan Watson, through no small feat of her own, has acquired a spot on the biggest ship the Red Star Lines has made-- The Huxley. A true vision of scientific research, coupled with a few mining areas (some planets are to be looked into extensively), and state of the art medical facilities. It even has plans to stop by the same colony her father helped found, where her mother and brother reside, practically on the other side of the universe.<br/>This job is a dream come true.</p>
<p>Exactly four months later, Sherlock Holmes, free-lance consultant to the Intergalactic Police is asked a crucial question.</p>
<p>"What do you know about The Huxley?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> I watched and read too much science fiction this month.

"It’s only a little over three months. I’ll be back before you know it.”  
“I refused the bloody job they made up, for me.”  
“And I took the job they offered me.”  
“Watson, please—”  
“Look, Sherlock. You have this irrational—shut it. It’s irrational because you have no proof they killed ** _her_** all those years ago. This irrational dislike of all things Solar Salvation is getting annoying. I am going. I took the job and I’m packing my things and I will see you in less than four months.”  
“It will be five if the damn Solarists are involved.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Watson, see reason. Most of this crew is comprised of Solarists. Most of these … fanatics subscribe to the Solar Salvations and their inane and potentially natterings.”  
“Sherlock, if it bothers you that much, come along with me. I have three spots reserved for family.”  
“Your family is in the colonies.”  
“Which is yet another reason to go.”  
“I don’t want to meet them.”  
“That’s a lie.”  
“Not like this. Watson, we can commandeer our own ship and visit them. Why do we need to go via a Red Star Line ship?”  
“It’s a job, Sherlock. And a very prestigious one at that. I’m not changing my mind.”

 

* * *

  
She speaks into the headset, eyes trained on the windows, watching Earth get farther and farther away.  
“I thought you would see me off, at the shuttle terminal. I was wrong. Look, Sherlock. I haven’t seen my mother or my brother since two years ago. Videos aren’t enough. My father’s too busy with his company to do much other than tell me his opinion about my career choices. Anyway, you’re right. There’s some Solar Salvation people on board. But it's to be expected. They're very popular. It's only three months.”

 

* * *

 

 

"Welcome to Terminal 12." Scanning, blinks the screen, filling with the names and faces of the crew. "Confirm: Joan Watson."

"Confirmed,” she says, a screen appearing in front of her, a computerized female human staring back at her.

"Doctor, how may I help you?"

"Gamma, is it true we can communicate with Earth?"

"The USC Space Liner Huxley is equipped for long-range communications."

"Is it a live feed?"

"Due to recent solar flares, we cannot establish live feeds. However, the USC Space Liner Huxley can send logs to Earth, time-stamped and sent at a later, more convenient time. Captain and crew maintain first priority. We at Red Star Lines thank you for your patience. To check your status, please insert Identification Card now. To continue, please voice a new command."

"Gamma, record video log."

"Recording."

"Hey, Sherlock. I know I promised to check in every day, but the ship's pretty big. I've been busy, as you probably are, as well. Anyway, I'm sorry it can't be a live transmission. Solar flares, you know. In this part of the universe, it's bound to happen. We almost crashed into Satellite Five, the one with all the intergalactic television channels. It was like the Titanic, that one ship in our historical archives." Joan huffs, tapping on the steel keyboard.

"Okay, not much, but it's odd that we almost crashed. They have restricted air space. How's Clyde doing? Please tell me he's fine. I was thinking of bringing him along, since I really don't trust you with him, not after the turtle soup joke, but Marcus said he'd stop by. Oh, tell him I met his brother, the one who's going to be sent as extra security detail to the colony." She yawns, stretching in the cramped terminal booth.

"Speaking of which, did you hear about the spike of crime in the colonies? And not just in Cassiopeian Colonies, too. Muggings, homicide, suicide, robberies, arson, kidnapping, ransoms, you name it, it’s happened. It's all very odd. I thought you would know more about it, seeing as it's your hobby, collecting data 'against' the Society of Solar Salvation.

“I mean, I don’t know why it’s their fault, but you’d find a way to see a conspiracy theory in it. You always do. Hey, did I tell you about the DOAS* being onboard?  They’re on a retreat or something. I haven’t seen a lot of them since the revolt on New Year’s Day almost ten years ago. Pariah Genetics is here too. Gods, they are a bunch of annoying old men. British Oil Consumables is here, obviously. They mostly stay farther away from the … robotically-challenged beings. But I like them. They seem … nice. One of them, James something or the other, said that he had begged to be on this voyage. Hear that? He begged to be here. It’s the maiden voyage of the biggest and most comfortable ship in all of space. How can anyone say no to that?

“Anyway, I have to go. I have a couple minutes to grab a food pack—and yes, Sherlock, it is from the personal set we made back at home—and see if I can catch a quick nap before we begin to teach everyone how to use mining tools. Which means us at the med bay are going to be more swamped than Grythmore III.**

“And don’t forget to feed Clyde! Or yourself! And sleep! And if you reprogram our dear Athena to reject Marcus or anyone else, I will come back and pour caffeine packs over every piece of electronic equipment.

“Gamma, end video transmission.”

“Ending transmission." The screen flashes with bold letters--Accessing back-up center, downloading code. Soon, it chirps.

"Doctor, you are the ahead of six civilian logs, and behind twelve crew logs. Thank you for your patience.”

“Gamma, has anyone else reported suit malfunctions?”

“There are five suits belonging to the crew in the repair shop. Three civilians reported suit malfunctions and are sending their suits in for repairs. Is your suit functioning correctly, doctor?”

“My suit’s fine, Gamma, thank you. Can I get a holo-map to the repair shop?”

“Of course, doctor." Uploading, uploading. "Thank you for your patience. Holo-map is located in your head-set. To activate, call up Map Two-One-Two. It will lead you directly to the repair shop. To continue, please voice a new command."

“That’s all, Gamma. Actually, Gamma, can you check my inbox? I think the solar flares are affecting it.” The hologram, with all its code and infinte knowledge, does not question the fact that solar flares do not affect the internal systems.

Processing, processing.

"Thank you for your patience. You have one new message; play?”

“Yes.”

“Playing Message One-Three-Zero-Two.”

Sherlock comes on screen, looking the same as the day she left. “Watson, listen. I’ve been getting reports of increased violence in the colonies. It’s not just in the Cassiopeia Systems either. So, just be careful. You’re senior officer, so there’s absolutely no need for you to go down with the others to the colony. In fact, there's no need for you to leave the science or medical bays. Stay in the ship, and don’t go below. I’m not saying it’s the work of those bloody Solar Salvation idiots, but I would feel better if you stayed.” He looks around, hearing something she can’t, before he returns to the screen.

“No unnecessary risks, you promised. I’ve programmed some interesting booklets into your reader. Promise you’ll read them. They're about the Huxley.” A female voice fills the headset, her voice.

“Sherlock?”

“Coming, Watson!” He glares at the camera, before shutting it off.

“End of transmission. Play again?”

“No, thank you Gamma,” she mutters, vacating the small booth.

 

* * *

 

"I saw a few DOAS’s on a rotation. It was odd; someone gave them infected food packs. Obviously, no one else cared enough to inspect it further, so I took on their cases. They’re still in the med bay and we’re waiting for their health meters to go back into green. Can you believe it? They were nearing orange and still waiting. The prejudice in this ship, Sherlock, I swear. Anyway, they were my first patients yesterday. Now, I’m the only one they trust to give them food packs, which is weird. Really, really odd, considering I’m an Earth human and we’re not known for being friendly to different types of humans. I'm not saying we're all like that, because we're not, but ... Not even the Martian doctor on board was willing to help. Anyway, I’m getting low on food packs, even with the extras you managed to sneak in. So I’m going to be using the ship’s food packs for now, okay? At least, until we dock and I can get supplies to make other packs. I just … who would attack them? They’re harmless. It might just be the food packs. I don’t know. Anyway, it’s almost lunch-time and I have to go soothe the wolves. So … here’s to hoping we can get live feeds next time."

 

* * *

 

"The Avalonians are here. I didn’t notice before, what with first mining lessons, and the DOAS’s getting sick, but they’re … here. They've booked most of the B-Deck. They’re nice to the robots and stuff, but mostly they walk around the ship, asking the crew questions about the most inane things. Kind of like you." She barks out a laugh. "Anyway, I'm due for another shift soon. Apparently, most of the C-Deck got bad food packs. We've had to send countless complaints, which are flooding our link system, as well as having tons of people pulling their funding, selling their stocks. It’s … annoying. Sherlock, throw out any of our O'Connor food packs. I think we still have a few. God, given our tendency, and by that, I mean yours, to make our own food packs, I think we’re safe. Anyway, shift change starts in a few. Are these messages getting to you? Or are you too busy to respond? Anyway, Gamma tells me the solar flare intrusion will be over soon so here’s to hoping I catch you on my break.”

 


	2. No News Is Bad/Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He does not miss her.  
> He also doesn't try to book a ticket to the Algol System.
> 
> It's not lying if it's just omitting the truth.
> 
>  
> 
> He doesn't think Captain Gregson will prosecute him for it. He's just one of the computer consultants, as well as the only crime-solving consultant, after all.

Six Months Later ...

Sherlock Holmes is worried. Except Sherlock Holmes doesn't _do_ worried.

But Joan hasn't sent him anything since she sent a picture almost two weeks ago. He calls up the photo, silently pleading it for answers. All it gives him is the frozen image of Joan, smiling at him. In the distance, small orbs of bright light glitter in the darkness.

Solar flares can't be the cause of this communications black-out, if they're nowhere near the sun, their schedule demanding they fuel up just outside of Neptune. That is, _if_ they're in the solar system.

Athena, ever the helpful computer, appears, the picture fading away.

"Urgent call from Captain Gregson. Do you accept?"

"Yes," he mumbles. He is not in the mood for one of Gregson's crime puzzles, not when he has the more interesting dilemma of the missing ship.

"Holmes, we'll be over in an hour. You'll need to pack."

"Whatever for?"

"Listen," he begins, as the screen turns to static for a few seconds. "Not much time right now. We need you to pack enough for a round trip to the outer reaches."

"Is there an intergalactic case?"

"Something like that. We've been asked to look into a disappearance. Just be ready for when we arrive and I'll fill you in on the way."

*~*~*~*

 As he finishes throwing random items into his traveling container, he remembers packing with Joan.

 _"Are ten extra food packs really necessary, Sherlock? They serve food on the ship."_  


 _"Their food packs could be tainted, Watson. I refuse to trust those opportunist money-grubbers. They have corrupt health officers tell me that it's perfectly safe, until there's some sort of outbreak."_  


 _"Right. Well, all I need now is to archive some books I'll need for research into the suit. Athena, have you seen where I left my identification card?"_  


 _"Error."_  


 _"Sherlock!" She yells from another room. Sherlock peers out from the kitchen, still holding a beaker of green fluid._  


 _"It's not always my fault there's a glitch in the system."_  


 _"Yes, but it's usually your meddling that makes Athena refuse to help anyone but you."_  


 _"My dearest Watson, you know that is not true. She'll help you if it's crucial."_  


 _"That's a lie and you know it." She leaves his line of sight and that's when Sherlock pounces for her personal food container, adding more of their sealed food packs._  


 _"Holmes, what did you do to her?"_  


 _"Nothing too permanent!"_  


 _"Ms. Hudson will have to fix her, if you don't!"_

  
 _"She relishes the task!"_

 

Loud knocking drags him from his reverie.

"It's a computerised house!" he shouts, rising from the circle of mess he's created. Ms Hudson might be persuaded to help him out, for an extra fee, if he cites going off on a case.

"Just open the door!"

"Athena."

"Access granted. Welcome, Captain T. Gregson. Welcome, Detective M. Bell."

"Four trunks, is that all?" asks Gregson, rolling his eyes.

"Those are my food supplies."

Gregson scoffs. "We're given--"

"He doesn't trust them. Do you, Mr. Holmes?" interjects Bell, not meeting his eyes.

"I ... I am almost finished with packing and ask that you assist with putting these in the cab."

"Yes, of course. Detective, if you will." Bell nods, turning to the set of boxes set in the doorway.

"Do hurry up, Mr. Holmes, if we're to get there sometime before our passports expire."

"Yes, yes."

*~*~*~*

"Holmes, what do you know about The Huxley?"

"The jewel of the Red Star Lines. It is both a research facility and a cargo ship. What is contained in the ship's hull is unknown."

"Supplies, for the Algol colony."

"So they say."

"Is that all you know about it?"

"Many researchers and doctors joined the crew to supplement said research labs." He fidgets, thinking of Joan and how she could be stranded on the colony.

  
"We've received a new transmission from the ship."

"I see. All of this requires my assistance, how?"

"It was addressed to you."

"Was it? How odd. If it were addressed to me, I would have received it."

"We intercepted it, on grounds of our investigation."

"Investigation? Is the ship all right? Are the passengers all right?"

"That is the mission, to determine the fate of the ship's communication systems."

"I want to see the transmission."

"You're not allowed."

"But I'm allowed to help? Government bureaucracy. None of this applies to me, as I am merely a consultant."

"Which is why we're letting you assist our team with your ... unique computer skills."

"How gracious of you. I want to see the transmission."

"No."

"Why not?"

Bell lifts his hand, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his, he recalls."We're ... pretty sure it's corrupted."

"If it is, I can restore it." Bell nods, looking away.

"I don't doubt it, but we'd rather you didn't see it."

"Detective Bell, I would like access to the transmission. It was addressed to me."

"We ... can't."

"Detective Bell, please understand. I need to see the transmission."

"We're here," grumbles Gregson.

* * *

 

“Computer, status update,” instructs a male voice. The holographic interface, Alpha, nicknamed Allie, nods and lowers the room’s lights.

“Universal Systems Government Ship, the Icarus, is en route to AlgolSystem.” A hologram of a map, detailing the course of the ship, pops up.

“Primary mission assets are … S. Holmes, T. Gregson, M. Bell, H. Jacobs, and T. Morstan.” Snippets of personnel files circle the room, a holographic picture of the person matching the words.

“Directive List: Updated. There are currently three directives. Directive 1: Locate tourist vessel USG The Huxley. Communication was lost two weeks ago. Last transmission sent by J. Watson to S. Holmes received four days ago.

"Directive 2: Diagnose and repair communications blackout on tourist ship.

"Directive 3: Diagnose and initiate repair on communications black out on colony Algol II.”

“Allie, add directive for Suit 221.”

“Adding directive to Suit 221; awaiting further instructions.”

“Secure J. Watson and ensure safety.”

“Directive added. Suit 221, you have a fourth directive. Play?”

“Yes.”

“Directive 4: Secure J. Watson and ensure safety. End List of Directives. Time to contact: 3 minutes and counting.”

“Allie, play last transmission from the Huxley.”

Static fills the central room’s communication lines, causing two men to flinch. Allie switches channels, opening an archived video log. The noise shuts off immediately, while the holographic screen lights up, and a female voice fills the room.

“Sherlock, listen, it’s me. I wish I could talk directly to you. Guess we keep missing each other, huh? Anyway, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. Listen, there’s something … I can't believe what's happening … It's so strange … I don't think we even understand …"

The video log goes to static, and it shuts off. The man, Sherlock, is on deck of the Icarus. He turns around, coming face to face with Detective Bell.

"Seriously, Holmes. How many times have you watched that thing?”

“Not enough, Bell. Not enough.”

“I miss her too, you know. Don't worry, we're almost near the Algol colony. You'll be able to look her up once we're on board. Seems like you two have a lot of catching up to do." Sherlock Holmes makes to respond but is interrupted by Gregson.

"All right everyone, we're synching our orbit now."

Bell rolls his eyes. "I still can’t believe it; all this trouble over that stupid chunk of rock."

"Deep space mining is a lucrative business, Bell. Algol is a gold mine, both for research and mining, according to prospector's reports. Cobalt, Silicon, Osmium ... Now, there she is. We have visual contact." Gregson narrates, reading the quick ticker of news on the screens, smiling.

Bell scoffs, looking out. "So that's The Huxley? Impressive."

“It’s the colony that’s impressive. Your brother had his work cut out,” adds Sherlock distractedly.

"The USG Huxley. Biggest commercial ship in her class. It’s got compartments specifically for the use of mining below. And it looks like they already started digging.”

Engineer 18, T. Morstan, points to the ship, worry ebbing into his voice. "Why is it all dark? I don't see any running lights."  
Gregson looks out the glass panes, before calling up a link. "Chen, take us in closer and hail them. And stay clear of the debris field. We're here to fix their ship, not the other way around." There is no reply, but Captain Chen is heard speaking, not to them.

“USG Huxley, this is the emergency maintenance team of the USG Icarus responding to your distress call. Come in Huxley."

Bell clicks on his communication line, adding in, "You're going to need to boost the signal if their power is low."

Gregson nods. “Chen, boost the signal. Add more."

"I’ve never heard of a total communications blackout on one of these things. You'd think with a thousand people on board, someone would pick up the phone--" Morstan adds, consulting a console, bringing up different articles on the ship's computer system.

If no one, not a single living thing on board, answered, where was everyone?

Sherlock tries not worry, tries to ignore the feeling of being in danger. He is here to makes sure Joan is safe, and barring that, to find her in less than optimal conditions. Hurt, but alive is the only alternative he can allow.

Allie cuts off Gregson and Bell’s commentary to the captain. “Incoming transmission from USG Huxley. Play?”

Gregson nods at Allie, who brings up a holographic screen. Unintelligible sounds, similar to shrieking, are heard. It cuts off after twenty seconds.

"What is that?" Morstan stammers as he looks around the room, confused.

Gregson sighs, clicking his comm on. "Sounds like they're having problems with their encoder. You get us down there, Chen. Our little team can fix it before you send the rest of the crew. Forty-eight hours max."

 

"Gravity tethers engaged. Automatic docking procedure is go." Chen is about to add something else, but Icarus shifts sharply, rocking the inhabitants.

"What the hell was that?"shouts Gregson.

"Sir! The autodock--" interrupts Morstan.

Gregson turns to the two other men. “Get the rest of our crew in here. Now!” The men rush out of the room, and Gregson clicks the comm, trying to contact the crew. "What’s going on? What is it?"

"We're off track! We're going to hit the hull!" Chen yells.

"Hit the blast shields! Their guidance tether is damaged! Switch to manual. NOW!" Gregson yells, hoping the crew hears it. Bell herds in five people, a cluster of engineers.

"Inside the magnetic field? Are you insane?! Abort!" Bell yells, trying to get his comm to work. “Abort!”

"NO! Chen, no! We can make it inside!"

 

Sherlock, still speaking to Allie, shuts the door, initiating the lockdown on the room. The wide window panels, surrounding the room, brighten with white light, obscuring any view. Three grinding sounds reverberate throughout the Icarus, and everything goes black, the shields stuck  half-way, as the ship shuts off. Someone in the room shouts out an order, a light flickers on an emerging screen and the system hums, restarting. The blast shields retract.

Gregson barks out to the entire room, calm and orderly. "Is everyone okay?"

"What the hell were you thinking?!” Bell shouts, stabbing the communication button on his headset, as Morstan yells, “Were you trying to get us killed?"

“I just saved our asses! If we had aborted at that speed and distance, we would have smashed right into the side of the Huxley. We're here to fix it, not send it hurdling down to the colony! Now settle down, and let's get to work. Captain, report!" Chase reports as Sherlock speaks to a terminal, void of Allie, glaring and demanding their suits.

"I'm not getting any readings from the port booster and we've lost some comms and Allie, along with our autopilot. It'll take some time to fix. Any injuries, report to the medical bay."

All right, let's get some extra hands from the flight deck to help out." Bell turns around, grabbing Sherlock’s suit.

"Hold still, Holmes, I'm synching up everyone's RIGs with the ship.” He pats the helmet, going around to the others, adding the code. “Okay, we're done. Clean bill of health for everyone."

Gregson nods, stepping in front of the door. "All right. We've still got a job to do. Move out."

Sherlock is the last to depart toward the bay area, asking a terminal computer to inspect his suit. With a glance toward Bell, he murmurs for the suit to delete the new code.

He exits the ship, where Mortsan is examining the ship’s hull, a neon green screen in front of him.

Morstan curses inside his suit, before clicking on a comm line to Gregson. "You didn't lose power to the port booster. You LOST the port booster! Unbelievable." Jacobs, another engineer, oversees Morstan's actions.

Gregson shrugs, the unworried movement visible to everyone. He clicks on the comm line, adding Sherlock to the conversation.

"Guess the power's down everywhere. Holmes, get over here and hack into the door pad." He nods, remembering that he is there for one reason and one reason only—to hack, if necessary, the security on board. Mortsan’s limited knowledge only helped so much. His apprenticeship was not yet finished. Unlike Joan’s, whose career training was finished as quickly, so quickly that it was a record. Joan, Joan who was probably waiting inside the ship.

The ship’s pad lights up as the automated greeting, from the Virtual Artificial Intelligence on board, starts to play for the four men. “Done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this awfully quick, so if there's any mistakes, please point them out.
> 
> Also, I hope to update weekly, but I probably won't, and only when I think of something to muck up this entire thing.


	3. Inside The Huxley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Directive 1-A: Locate Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this while waiting to go to C2E2, so there might be some mistakes. Please point out any if you see them!

They enter the flight lounge, where the automated greeter, a light blue hologram, follows them, repeating the standard message.

“My name is Delphi, and I am the interface for guests. Welcome to The USG Huxley. Staff will arrive to help you momentarily. Thank you for using Red Star Lines.”

Morstan walks around in a circle, inspecting the interface, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. "Seems like everyone was trying to pack in a hurry. Why would they keep the greeter on?" Gregson frowns.

"There should be a security detail here, at the very least. This whole place is under quarantine."

Jacobs shrugs. "Yeah, well there's not. There's nobody here. I can't pick up any broadcasts."

"That security console looks like it's still alive. Holmes, log in and see what you can find. Morstan and Jacobs, you two get all of these the doors back online." Jacobs presses the buttons on the door pad, before waving it away, turning to Gregson with a shrug.

"Power's dead."

"Then re-route the damn power! Look, the sooner we cooperate, the sooner we leave. Let's get that computer display up now, Holmes."

He nods, linking his suit to the console. The soft blue screens pop up in front of the men.

Something liquid drops from the ceiling corner, the only part of the waiting room that is still stubbornly dark. Bell inspects the ceiling, only to see a gaping wound in the steel tiles. "Huh. She's taken a lot of damage." Gregson signals the rest of their haphazard crew to another room, most likely near the bay area, as they hear Delphi announce that luggage was to be sent to the bay area for processing. Morstan stands near the port terminal, checking the status of the power being routed to open the other doors.

"Elevators first. Unless we want to walk for hours around quarantine-blocked places."

"Yes, sir. But the tram system's offline.” adds Morstan.

“The air appears to be flowing through the ship again." Sherlock nods to himself, sifting through the code in his helmet’s Heads Up Display.

"That's a good start, Holmes."

The lights flicker, turning a dull red, the ticker around the room begins to show blocked letters, and a high-pitched siren starts. Delphi—now a deep red, appears almost immediately a predatory grin on her lips.

“Warning: Quarantined area. Do not enter. Warning: Quarantined area. Do not enter.”

Jacobs pops up from one of the exposed floor panel. "What the hell was that?"

Gregson shrugs, the carefree act almost hidden by his suit, his eyes on Sherlock. "It's just the A.I."

"The quarantine may have been restarted when the filtration system was brought back online."

"Hear that? Everybody relax …"

"What was that? Did you hear that?!" questions Morstan,  shouting over the instructions of Delphi.

"I'm not sure …" A panel from the ceiling falls, scratching Jacobs’ suit.

Jacobs shouts at them, the siren still going in the room, still heard through their speakers. "What the hell?" A shadow crosses the door, where Jacobs stands.

Bell looks around. "I think something's in the room with us!" Sherlock tries to break the link with the computer, struggling to yank the cord from the console station.

A shadow crosses the room and Jacobs disappears. His helmet, a bloody mess, registers his death after a pause, emitting a flat-line to the others.

“Jesus! Open fire! Open fire!" The flat-line still humming through their speakers, even heard over the gunfire, over the sirens and the soft tones of Delphi. Morstan and Bell open fire, but Gregson yells at him.

“Morstan! Get the doors working!" A second ceiling panel falling to the ground.

“Morstan!”

"Come on... come on. Got it!" Jacobs’ flat-line is still heard as they all fall back.

“Holmes, get the hell out of here!"

Bell grabs his suit, dislodging the cables linking him to the terminal, and shoves him into the direction of the other door, following him.

"The door's unlocked, run!" shouts Gregson, still firing.

Sherlock looks back to the doors, locked. The hall they both stand in is bathed in blue light.

Staring at the door, he thinks of how they will manage to break the quarantine on the rest of the ship. He thinks, why didn’t they try to escape as well?

Someone, someone unknown to him, whispers. “Is someone there? Hello?"

Bell glances around. "It's probably some old audio feed. This entire ship is on the fritz."

“Old ... audio. If everyone is off the ship, old audio from where?”

Bell is about to respond when a link appears on their HUDs, from Gregson and Morstan.

“Gregson! Thank god you’re alive.”

“Barely. We ran into another one of those shadow things. Are you two okay?”

“Gregson, is that supposed to be a crew helmet behind you?” Gregson turns, looking at the helmet and suit, neatly piled on the floor.

“It has blood,” stammers Morstan. “Does that mean we’re too late?”

“We need to locate crew. Maybe we’re part of some elaborate joke. Too many of the classic science fiction stuff gets to you out here. Half the doors on the ship are locked because of the quarantine. You both got lucky, somehow. Now, we'll have to get to the bridge, but first, we got to repair the tram system."

“We don't have the equipment or the personnel. Jacobs is gone. And the rest of our crew was taken away by Delphi to god knows where; this is going to get us all killed." states Bell, looking around for a map.

"If you listen to me, I WILL get you out of here alive. Now what's wrong with the tram, Morstan?"

"There's a broken tram blocking the tunnel that needs to be repaired. Dammit, everything is on the other side of this quarantine. We can't reach it from here, sir."

"No we can't...but you both can. Holmes, if I can get to the bridge, I should be able to access the personnel files and reroute the computer per your instructions. You help Bell and Morstan fix the tram and I'll help you find Joan.

"And Bell, Holmes? Be careful."

"Looks like the door is malfunctioning, Holmes. I'll need your help." Holmes nods, reaching for the keypad, trying to get into the system.

"Welcome to The Huxley, Mr. Holmes. I am Gamma, the Huxley's A.I. for crew members. Should you need any help, I am here to assist."

“Gamma, we need to use the tram system. Can you repair it?”

“Initiating Tram Repair,” she smiles, before disappearing into a blank screen.

Two minutes later, she reappears, smiling. “Replacing damaged tram car. Please stand by."

 

"That’s not too bad, Holmes. That tram was blocking the whole system.”

 

Gregson nods, a small grin on his face. “When you get the tram computer online, call the tram from the control room.”

“The faster the better ... I can hear something crawling around out there ...” Morstan adds.

 

“Tram replacement complete," interrupts Gamma.

 

"Holmes, we need to get out of here, before we're attacked. Come on. We need to meet up with Gregson and the rest."

 

Bell stares at the hologram in front of them. “Gamma, do you have a complete map of the ship?”

“Yes.”

“Can we have it?”

“Authorised personnel only. You are not authorised.”

“Great,” he huffs, glaring at the hologram. “Holmes, I'll go this way, you go that way. Got it? We need a map and we need one soon.” Sherlock stares the hologram, who smiles and repeats the company motto.

"Holmes! Look at me. We need to find the ship's bridge and try to see what we can do."

"I have to find Watson."

"We'll have to fix the ship before anything else. We're sending another team down to the colony to check on them."

"We were advised to stay away. Quarantine," he mumbles.

"Yeah, well, they asked us to wait a two week period before we investigated this place. I say, we ignore the rules this time."

"What?"

"I thought Gregson

prepped you for this mission?"

"Not well enough, it seems."

"Holmes, we need to get our team away from ... whatever it is."

"I need to get to the nearest console station."

"No, Holmes. We need to get to the flight deck. It has to be this way."

"I NEED TO GET TO A CONSOLE! I HAVE TO FIND DR. WATSON!"

"Yeah, and I have to find my brother. But, we'll do better if we--"

"I'm going this way, Marcusl. The schematics tend to be the same for every Red Star ship, and if I'm right, Joan should be this way."

"If the quarantine doesn't block your route."

"I advise we stay together."

"Well, yeah. But I'm going to find the captain first."

"Then this is where we part. I have to find--"

"Joan, yeah. I know. I have to find my brother, too. But, we need to ensure this ship won't--"

"Did you hear that?"

"Gravitational pull of Algol is probably pulling us down. I need to get to the captain."

"Look him up, Marcus. The ship's system is not so corrupted as to deny you information."

"Let's hope so. Sherlock, you'll be careful."

"I will try."

"It wasn't a question. I need you back in one piece. Not for me, but for ..."

Sherlock nods grimly. "I know." The ship creaks, shifting them slightly.

"Better get going to the flight deck, Bell."

"Right. Holmes, I'll be communicating with you via video links, so keep all channels open."

Sherlock nods, trying to ignore the sudden pitch into darkness. "Understood, Detective." It’s probably a systems reboot, since both interfaces seem to working still. He calls the elevator, ignoring the fact that it’s the only glowing buttons in the hallway.


	4. Directive Achieved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, most of those 'directives' didn't openly apply to Sherlock. The only one which did, is the most important one.
> 
> If he goes around ignoring everything not pertinent to his cause, he's merely filtering useless information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I don't even know.
> 
> I've had this for weeks, and it's not going to get any better, so ... *runs away and hides*

The second he steps out of the elevator, his brain begins to shut down systematically. He can’t focus, won’t focus, on the blood smeared on the walls unless he is speaking in a distant voice, as if he wasn’t thinking of screaming out for Joan, in this ship full of not-yet-assessed threats. Joan, he wants to cry out. Joan, are you safe? Sherlock needs to stay clinical. He is a technicians expert, is a simple technicians consultant. He is not instructed to report violence, not anymore. He is not homicide anymore, not like before. He solves old cases, which are now called random acts of violence perpetrated by an irregular individual of society. There is no such thing as homicide anymore. The Star Salvation cult took care of that, ending the lives of many and sweeping it under the carpet.  It is not blood, it is red liquid. Blood is only found living inside bodies, medical facilities, or old police cases.

“You know,” Marcus begins and Sherlock can hear signs of the other man’s suit hitting the ship’s steel walls. “Old space exploration movies started like this.”

Sherlock walks around the bloodied remains of whatever floor this was and he prays it isn’t the children’s section. “Were their endings satisfactory?”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Everyone died because of Martians or an alien virus.”

“Historical, prejudiced films are rarely a fountain of logic or basis for a mission’s actions.”

“And yet, I feel like this might just be the beginning.”

“That is because you take old space exploration movies as fact. We would never do so.”

“You know Joan always thought they had _some_ truth to them. Otherwise, why make them?”

“Obviously, they were made for their entertainment value, Detective Bell. Have you located a single crew member?”

“No,” he sighs. “Have you?”

Sherlock stares at the bloody remains of another suit, stepping around it. “I have not. I’m heading into the Educational Level, which seems to be near a severe quarantine area, so communication will be very sparse and full of technical errors.”

“Copy that, Holmes. Please don’t get yourself stuck inside quarantined areas.”

“I’ll try not to do, but if I find myself in such a place, what am I to do?”

“Run before the doors close, idiot.” He says his goodbyes, heading toward the stairway, having finally reached it.

Gamma smiles, before waving him inside the elevator, “The stairs are being cleaned, Mr. Holmes.”

“Are they? Whatever for?”

The hologram glitches; lines of static replace her transparent body for a few seconds, before she waves toward the elevator again. “Please, Mr. Holmes, do take the elevator.”

 

When he exits, suddenly at a loss for breath—even with the suit’s self-replicating oxygen tank—he steps over the remnants of a ship guard, and ignores the way Gamma stands by his side, almost guiding him past the deceased.

“Where is Senior Medical Officer J. Watson?”

“Error: query is not compatible with my database. Please try again, Mr. Holmes.”

“Where is the Senior Medical Officer?”

“Error: data corrupted. I am fixing my database as soon as possible. Please try again at a later convenience. I thank you for your patience,” she finishes, bowing before disappearing. Sherlock curses softly, and looks around. There are four doors nearby and all quarantine-locked—except for the one at the far left.

Sherlock reaches for the keypad, before pulling up the screen and reading the room’s code.

“Level Four, education bay, room 21, occupied by D. Noble. They last entered the room ten days ago. They are no longer on board, this room is expected to be cleaned and restored for the next Red Star Line traveler. But nothing about where the passenger went, what happened to them, or why the room needs to be cleaned.” Sherlock slams his hand against the steel wall, grateful for the protection of his suit’s gloves.

Then, almost as if it were his imagination, he hears a panicked voice, soft with prolonged use.

“Is someone out there? Help! Help me, please! I don’t have a key! Please, open the door for me! Please! I can’t—don’t know how to hack it! Please! Open the door!”

Sherlock blinks, before pounding once more on the wall, and hearing the same panicked voice softly cry out. Sherlock turns on the ship’s interface—who appears, smiling wanly.

“Mr. Holmes, is there anything I can assist you with?”

“The voice I heard—where is it coming from?”

“There is no one on this level.”

“Which level, then?”

“Error: your query is not recognized. My database cannot respond. Please restate your question.”

“Which level—” he starts, anger rising up.

“Please! 19! Please! I can hear them! They’re coming for me! Please! Please, open the door!” He turns, ripping the keyboard towards him, stabbing the keys furiously as he tries to override the quarantine.

“This action is inadvisable, Mr. Holmes. I suggest a trip to the Huxley’s spa, where you’re bound to feel better than a star.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, willing himself to work faster, to ignore the increasingly frantic pleas. He manages to rewrite the code, to force the door to unlock from its quantum-lock.

“Please, hurry! Please! The door! Please! They’re coming! They’re coming!”

“It’s open,” he shouts, trying to be heard over Gamma’s insistent shrills that the door be returned to its previous state and the man’s desperate cries.

“I can hear them! Please! I can hear them! They’re everywhere! Please! Let me out! Please!”

“It’s unlocked!”

“No, no, no! No! Please! I can’t open it! Please! Hurry! Please!” Sherlock bites back the bitter taste of acid in his mouth, and throws himself on the door, almost flying into the room, where another shadow, or perhaps the same one—a part of his brain adds, is dispatching him. Sherlock stumbles backwards, out of the room, and into the hall, the brighter, quieter hall.

 

_“You just saw someone die in front of you. Do you want to talk?”_

_“No, but you do.”_

_“Sherlock …”_

_“Watson … I have a job to do, wrongs to right. Worrying about my mental state, while misguidedly loving, is time wasted not doing my job.”_

_“… Okay.”_

 

“Breathe; deep breaths, Sher. There we go.”

“Jo—oan,” he gasps, reaching blindly toward the voice, eyes shut in fear, in hope, in despair.

“Don’t!”

“What?”

“Take a step back, now. Soft, slow, quiet,” she commands. He does it, dropping his hand. “Good. Do you want to talk?”

“Where are you?”

“I mean, we’re thousands of light-years away from Neptune! If that doesn’t say: I need to talk to you, I don’t know what does, Sher.”

“Are you okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?”

“No. Please, Watson, please.” He hears her sudden intake of breath, knows she understands his unspoken plea.

“We really do need to talk. The books you uploaded into my reader, all of the computer manuals and Star Salvation propaganda, psychology and medical journals. That is not light reading. Honestly, if anything, they put me to sleep. I was expecting it, though. No one lives with someone like you for almost three years and expects historical romance novels. No one in their sane mind expects anything less.”

“Are you safe?”

“Heart rate and pupil dilation at normal levels, Mr. Holmes,” interrupts Gamma.

“Where—”

“Sherlock, you need to listen to me, you need to follow my directions. It will take you to where my colleague, Jones is waiting. You need her.”

“Where are you?”

“Not important. Jones, Sherlock,” Joan stresses. “She will be able to help you.”

“You’re my partner.”

“I can’t … Sherlock, you need to leave now.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“The thing in the ceiling, in the walls, in the room across from you, it’s moving. You need to leave.”

“Where do I go?”

“Follow the instructions I send to your helmet. Sherlock, I need to go; my patients still need me. Bring me Jones. I need her help, and stay away from the vents.” He can hear the tears in her voice; can hear the torment in her mind. He wants to pulls her close, wants to feel her warmth against him, breath in the perfume of her skin, wants to memorize the almost transparent freckles on her cheeks, wants to be able to curl up beside her, to be encased in the perpetual soothing sense she radiates, the pure comfort she gives by being herself. He wants Joan Watson, ever the soldier—he does not want to hear himself, his fear and anguish, in her authoritative and loving voice.

“Hurry, Sherlock. The medical bay isn’t safe and Jones is slowly losing.” She mutters something, unintelligible even with his suit, before static rings in his ears.

He shakes his head, before spitting out, too late, “Watson! Where are you?”

**Author's Note:**

> * DOAS – Dynasty of Ancient Stars  
> ** Grythmore III is a planet made mostly of swamps, according to Joan's guide (which she nicked from their library) to the neighbouring galaxies.


End file.
